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Harry Potter and The Sanguine Brother's Bond	By : OranjeJoe Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7043 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Thank you all for your kind comments, and continued patronage to this story. Some of you seem a bit confused about where this is going, but rest assured I have a definite story arch that I am following, sorry if it tends to get a little slow. Hogwarts soon ye impatient bastards!

-ooo-

An eternity passed until in a sudden splash Draco surfaced from his deep torment, to cough up the waters of his pain and breathe for the first time in what must have been minutes. He was floundering against the chipping white painted bars that pressed lines into his face when his hands were set aflame. They burned and burned, covered in hot coals and spreading a thick cloud of ash. The fire grew up in torrents about his arms, spreading quickly to his chest and sparing no bit of flesh in a storm of combustion.

Waking up. Waking up, was like being dredged up from the bottom of a shallow, stagnant lake. The flithy green algae would float in slow suspension and quietly follow the crippled currents as they churned his mind.

He came up a gelatinous and loosely formed pile of things that had not seen the light of day in quite sometime. He reached the tension that was the water's surface, and pressed his face up against it, groaning and bloating his way until at last it let him pass dully through it.

And then it cushioned him, for which he was thankful, being this fat oily thing on the surface. Thankful because it was incredibly hot out.

He could hear cicada in the distance, droning out their long vibrations into the simmering wind as they watched the world bake.

Things were starting to become sensual as he ground up against the dry bank with his vague fleshy composure. Still melty but enjoying the feeling of being stewed. He breathed in heavily, letting the back of his mind tingle with the sultry buzzing of it all.

Someone was chewing sticks not far off in the woods that enclosed this hot waking place. He could almost feel the heavy labored breathing of the earth, and the thing that was chewing the sticks, it didn't understand how abrasive the sound was.

Suddenly, with terrifying speed he could see inside the mouth, as the gritty pulp and rotting bark went dank and moist into oblivion with the squelching and rubbing up against the jaws that were so obliviously macerating.

What had once been green and syrupy, had been sucked dry and a sapling baked. A twig to be done away with. Terrifying. Ripped apart against the cold white enamel. The dead sensuality of the event was a musty husk being broken down by the sick wet saliva of End to be spat back out into the breathing earth and sucked back into the Start.

Still feeling bloaty, the stick chewing was becoming a little more parsed, saying things like Draco and wake up, but the words were distant because the sound of chewing was so intense and grinding and assaulting Draco's melted and tubby awareness like slapping at water and feeling it come back against you and go away grumpy and miffed.

That was how he felt, and when his mind finally made the mental verbalization, the understanding that he was an old man watching the other retired people chew prunes and think about what it was like to be young and run through sprinklers.

And Draco didn't know what the hell a sprinkler was, or who the fuck was thinking about old people. But it made sense, and the cicadas agreed. While the whined away their one day to get fucked and die.

Glad to still be wet, he hoped he wouldn't dry out too soon and become a husk to be raped by the passage of time. And who ever it was that had thought about the old people, the other gelatinous blob who was also thinking about thinking so much to be dead at such a young age and to carry the burden of this pudding around for the rest of his living life, having been already dead. Who ever that was. They agreed with Draco about husks.

And disdaining the idea of getting a bunch of dirt in your mouth and all down your throat to the point where it got inside your skin and soaked away all that you had been carefully sucking into the membranes of your body, and soul.

But at that point everything would probably be neutral, which was why the texture of floral wall paper, and the having to hang onto the whole social construct of playing games and politics and the shallow things that other people tried to shove into you. Why boredom was like death, finished the other one that wasn't Draco.

If they got too close, the density of their sensually floating bodies would suck them together in an irrevocable coalescence. So Draco lumbered over to the other side of the pond, skirting away from the other massive girth with grace befitting the rotund aristocrat that he was.

For despite how much of it had been posturing, even here, between the slipping and the heat (chewing and slapping), he still had a certain yearning for the aesthetic qualities of the bohemian and the aristocrat. To polarity of the two, the swelling interplay of light and dark, loose and refined, the bond between them was what drew him.

Vibrant and full of dynamism - that was what people who were old and bored had forgotten about being able to do. So they just thought about it, and the chewing. They probably always heard the chewing by that time, the End, the snuffing.

Draco breathed out and all this rushed out or paused or something, and he was awoken suddenly to find himself looking about the room with blazing clarity. Such that even in the dim warm light of the late night hospital room, everything was visible and shimmering with sheer reality, and Draco's eyes looked around with smooth sensual wisps of bonding and attachment to even the most mundane.

He looked over at Harry, who still lay on the bed like someone had dropped him from a great height to lay sprawled and bleeding open on the hot pavement. But in looking at him, into him the way he was, he knew him to be alright.

Out of the shadows of the corner of the room, as if she had been haunting the clock that read simply, 'half past you should stop caring at this point, its late', his mother came into view. She wore a long black traveling cloak, that hung about her shoulders with a great weight. Everything, from her long platinum hair, to the way she clung to the edge of the bed, told Draco that she had been windswept and deflated by some burden of extreme sadness.

"Is it father?" he reached out to hold her hand softly, both of them warmed slightly by the touch and their arrangement under the soft glow of the light in the lamps. Draco was propped, prince like and sallow against the pillows, and she came to sit by his side on the bed, running her thumb over his knuckles in that sweet motherly way.

She shook her head slowly, adding a little half laugh to the mix, and looking at him with watery eyes. "No, Draco, he is still alive. How ever fortunate or unfortunate that may be."

All the lines in her still rather youthful face grew deep for a moment, as she clutched at a small silver dragon, hung around her neck. As Draco stared at it, he could imagine its sound, as tarnished and dark as it has always been, since before he could properly remember.

"No, Draco, I come bearing grave news." She looked into his eyes, and there he saw the deepest of sadness, regret, and fear. It was the fear that stood upon her trembling lips and kept what ever sorrowful confession locked within.

Malfoy, despite still feeling somewhat disjointed, felt a focused rush of importance. Like the premonition of some defining event, a shudder that renewed his clarity of mind so that he could take in all of the moments that followed.

Narcissa drew in a deep breath, and moved to place her hand on top of his; Draco was glad for the lack of preamble. "I must ask you just to let me speak this… or I shant ever be able to get it out."

Draco nodded, noting the cold feeling of his mother's smooth hands, and the way they trembled slightly, in preparation for her speech. She had the same long delicate hands as he.

"Draco… you are our only son. Our only son. The only male heir to the Malfoy name in your generation." She looked at him, as if hoping he would just mystically understand something. She continued after a pause, realizing he wasn't going to connect the dots.

"Your father, my father, their father's fathers, all of them were subject to an almost sacred obligation. The obligation of continuing our lineage… I spent my entire life believing in this sacred preservation of the purest of magical blood. Believing that something as profound and wonderful as magical ability would rely on such petty means of expression.

Draco, I no longer care about our blood, your blood, your father's blood. This world isn't about such distinctions." She was looking at him again, pleadingly, and the slight tautness in her voice and the little stumbles and contortions in her face, they told Draco that they were nearing the heart of the matter.

He glanced sidelong at Potter, not sure if he wanted him to be awake and listening on the sly, or dead asleep. He looked to be dead, at least; Draco didn't think anyone was that good at looking like they were simply a loose sack of blood and guts. Handsome though, handsome sleeping meat sack. Draco was certainly beyond sanity.

"I would have you do what ever it is your heart desires. And until now, until this, I had hoped that you could. People find love in the strangest of places, the strangest of times.

… But it seems your father had other plans. I always knew the marriage would be arranged, I just had hoped he wouldn't stoop so low."

"What are you talking about mother? I have forsworn all allegiance to him. He has no power over me, over us, so far as the extent of his wand..."

His mother held up a shushing hand, and he saw a sob wrack through her body, but she stifled it, intent on pushing forward.

"That - I'm sorry… my dear son. That is the unfortunate truth. You see, your father, many years ago, in secret. He - he performed such darkness…. When it comes to delivering results, you father is ruthless, perhaps even more so than - than … Voldemort."

They both drew in a hushed breath and felt a great chill fall over them, floating down around their shoulders with a blanket of seriousness and sincerity. Again, she held up a a finger to her mouth, her lips trembling violently now.

" I found him, the man who helped your father do this to you. His name is Roren Götten. Severus and I, hunted him down and forced him to tell us what had befallen you. I had my suspicions, when Dumbledore told me what you two had done, but I never believed it. I have been so blind! So blind to your father's cruelty, his drive to satisfy his desires is more deprave than I could have ever imagined. I am so sorry, my son. The depth of my pity knows no bounds."

She lapsed into silence, and looked away, clearly in pain from what ever she was about to admit. He let her take a moment to compose herself, but began to rub her hand, gently nudging her to continue. Strangely he wasn't frazzled or nervous about what she was going to say, for though he was lucid, his emotions still seemed suppressed, neutral, and unintelligible.

"He has bound you my love, from all love and loving contact aside from those he would deem… beneficial to the continuation of the lineage. That terrible dark lineage."

She looked to see If he understood, but he had already moved on to stare at the bed to his right. He was looking without really looking. Staring into a different reality, the one within himself. And what he saw there she could not guess, but the single tear that was running down his face told her of more sorrow than she had ever hoped would befall her only son. She looked down at her forearm, where the faint lines of more than one oath were burned into her flesh.

Draco was rather glad that the emotional upheaval that was moving itself ominously in the dark lake that was his mind, was still refusing to be translated into english. If he could think about how he felt in english, it would mean that he was able to connect it to things in the vast web of tragic associations in his life; then, like a fly caught in the sickly sticky web, he would be devoured.

So he was quite content in a way, to just ride the wave, and feel it pull tight his chest and heave a silent tear. He was looking at Potter, and was glad he didn't care why. Even if they could never again be together.

They sat this way for what must have been an hour, until suddenly the gentle rubbing of his mother's hand reminded him of her presence. He looked at her, and they shared that kind of morose loving look that only a mother and child can share.

"There is no way to cure it then? To lift the curse."

She breathed out heavily, and said, in almost a whisper, "Non, mon cheri."

"Ne déspérez pas, ma mère. My life was never meant to be easy."

"...Will you tell him?"

He looked over at the boy who had always been his enemy, his rival, the origin of all his excess passion and emotion. Negative until the day he had forsaken his past, in favor of becoming strong for the future, all because that boy could smile in all his whimsy even on the precipice of certain death. And then, coming to understand that behind the facade of happiness, a mere analogue to Draco's own icy grey shield, was a boy just as alone in the darkness.

Harry stirred slightly in his sleep, just as slightly as the urge to comfort this lonely boy had begun to grow and work its timid roots in Draco's heart. He had cut loose the web of haughty pretensions that he had paraded about his whole life, and just for a moment, Draco had seen the light of what could be a true bond of friendship beginning to form.

And now they would forever be destined to remain platonic. He felt briefly, an echo of their kiss, and shuddered as another tear escaped him, mourning for what might have been. He reminded himself that Potter had only played along to console him, so as to make the loss of the whole prospect a little lighter to bear.

It was self delusion, but few things in this world weren't, he supposed.

"I wish I could sit here all night with you, hold you like I did when you were young and I could protect you from all the darkness in this world. I wish I could give you better than this. But the house, it cannot be left alone too long."

"Like I said mother, do not despair. I understand. Go now, I need rest. You know. And no, I won't be telling him."

"Ma cheri, you cannot lie to me" She reached out to pinch his cheek like she had done when he was a child, but then got up and left swiftly, glancing back at the door to give him a quiet smile.

She was right, he hadn't wanted her to leave because he needed rest. All Draco really wanted to do was be alone, so he was free to just ride the current of his mind with out feeling the need or pressure to verbalize anything.

He was certainly spending quite a lot of fucking time in bed these days, and hoped it wouldn't lead to some sort of debilitating weakness. It was good to feel indignant again though. After being bored for so long ,that time under the ice, he was glad it wasn't looking to be permanent.

He moved a little bit, realizing for the first time that something hard was digging into his back. It took literally every ounce of effort contained within him to reach around and grab at it.

As soon as he had it in his hands he collapsed back into the pillow, with laboured breath. Draco lay there, for a few minutes, enjoying just the breathing in and laughing at himself for being so worn out. It was almost pleasurable, like an exertion high, he was still a bit loopy too, from being dead so long.

Eventually he got around to looking at the piece of metal and cloth that he was holdi- he let out a gasp and dropped the little medallion, stunned to see it again, but also reeling in the wealth of emotions that surged forth in an endless stream of bottled up nostalgia.

He thought for the tiniest of moments, about the grief for his long murdered owl, but it was followed in rapid succession, like a great orgasmic rush, by all the positive memories of his past that had been so roughly stolen from him by the attack of the Dementors.

He beamed across at his savior, who mumbled something in his sleep, perhaps in reaction to the pure ecstasy that was radiating from Draco's mind. He felt himself dissolving again, but this time the warmth felt beyond mere warmth, it was the blazing heat of years of joy, burning all at once and melting away the last of the ice in a fiery glory.

He lay back, exhausted and asleep before his head hit the pillow. Unfettered by the news that he could never again touch the one he craved.

-ooo-

Someone was making tea when Harry awoke. He felt distinctly worn out, like he had been running a great distance, and spent a great amount of time as a puddle, but never the less he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

"Good afternoon, Harry." Said the familiar voice of Dumbledore, somewhere to his left.

Still feeling a bit deadened, he merely huffed, and threw up his hands a little bit, realizing that he had been breathing very shallow. He hoped that Dumbledore would understand that he was asking what the hell had happened to him.

"I can't really say for sure, given that no one but yourself really knows what happened. But you are showing all the signs of having your mind invaded by Voldemort. But as to why, that is something I cannot say."

He looked at Harry, and in his eyes there was comfort and patience, that calmed Harry down enough that he let out the breath he had been subconsciously holding. He hadn't been breathing during the time of the episode, and so now, when he didn't breathe all the emotions came rushing back in an echo on the wind.

He felt distinctly rushed to figure out the reason behind his madness, his darkness, and his pain, but as always the old man - his very presence was like a soft touch on the shoulder, that grounded him and blew away all the stress.

He sank into the hospital bed, and felt at ease. Not everything had to be done all at once.

Just as he was about to lapse again into a light drowse, green flames shot up in the fireplace, and to his left Malfoy bolted out of his slumber.

"mmmfuck… Potter would you keep it down?"

Harry was not in the mood for the little snot. So instead he just looked over at the blond git and gave him the heaviest of death glares, laced with a little bit of betrayal. Almost like "what happened to us kissing?" but not getting too close, because then they might have to talk about it.

So he didn't even look or notice that Narcissa had come in with her now famous (in Harry's subconscious) cinnamon rolls, he was instead thinking that it was back to being lonely, and feeling the empty lack of presence in his life.

He tried to subsume himself in the soft warm cotton of his bed, willing the plush down pillow and heavy comforter to do their jobs, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but feel a little morose. And now he would have to explain to Dumbledore all the things he'd said to the minister, leaving out the bit about the fluffy pink bitch. And then they could talk about lord Voldemort.

Suddenly, saying the name again in his head, he felt a string of tension break within him, unleashing a wave of panic, and letting loose the idea that he was going to have to face Voldemort in mortal combat. One of them was going to die.

He looked down at his hands, wondering what had brought about all this angst. He used to be able to just shove all these thoughts down into a deep part of himself and put a smile on his face. He used to think that it was possible to just keep his angst sequestered until this war was over, so that he could be the hero everyone needed.

But he wasn't, and that was the truth, he'd lied about it to Scrimgeour. He was just Harry fucking Potter. A fucking poofter who up and collapsed at the slightest blow. He took the roll that was handed to him with mute gratitude on his face, proud that he could at least be outwardly polite, to a minimum, even as he contemplated his inadequacy.

He was watching Draco now, who also looked weak, reserved, but somehow not as concerned as he was. There were dark rings under his eyes, and he shook a little bit as he ate, yet still he was beautiful. Perhaps it was the dogged loneliness that they both possessed that allowed Harry to see the radiant love that was just waiting to be unleashed.

He was getting gushy now, and hurried to eat his role to distract himself. One kiss was all it took apparently, to set his heart a flutter. He could feel all of those things Malfoy had left him in the pensive, welling up inside him in a great wave, so he rushed to get ahead of it and sat their with a strained look on his face, until it passed. He must have looked stupid, but he was well past impressing people anymore, his meeting with the minister was certainly testament to that.

Harry turned to Dumbledore, fighting back the exhaustion that wracked his mind when he thought about having a full on conversation. "I suppose you'll want to hear about my meeting with the minister then?"

And so for the next twenty minutes Dumbledore waited patiently while Harry confessed to being quite bristled during the meeting, and having burned some bridges and been overly abrasive. He was getting to the point of just babbling now, and still Dumbledore was just waiting patiently, almost as if he was waiting for Harry to just get to the heart of the matter.

He knew Dumbledore was trying to coax out Harry's uncertainty about his fate, but he wasn't going to do that now, not with Draco and his mother in the room. Draco was weak, uncertain, he told himself, so any hint of uncertainty on Harry's part was sure to send him whimpering right back to Lord Voldemort. A little light bulb went off in the back of his mind remembering that he used to suppress his problems by projecting them onto others. He ignored the crushing reality of this new awareness, managing to pacify it by promising to wallow in it the next time he needed to have a break down about himself.

He was Harry fucking Potter goddamnit, maker of magic so powerful it blew a hole in the London Docks. Fuck yeah.

"So I told him that it's he who should be trying to help me, and then I left without a word."

"I get the feeling that you are waiting for me to tell you that you acted rashly, and that perhaps letting your rage slip a little in front of one of the most influential wizards in the current world, that that was probably not the best course of action. You are waiting for me to say that?"

Harry paused for a moment, unsure if agreement was what Dumbledore wanted. After a few seconds of general consternation, he nodded his head.

"Well, then" said Dumbledore, smiling "if you already know what it is I would've liked you to know, then I hardly need to say anything do I?"

"Yes, well, you always seem to know what I'm going to say… but I still say it."

"Mm… sometimes I have found that talking about things out loud is a confession of sorts, it makes them real. But I've done quite enough living, that by this point I have hardly anything left to confess."

"Do you think I've done any permanent damage to my reputation?"

"With the minister? No, I think, in the long run at least, you have probably garnered a little bit of respect. People often take the greatest offense to the truth, don't you think?"

Harry glanced over at Malfoy, who seemed to be in a daze, but looked sharply in his direction when he noticed Harry's glare.

"Regardless, I think the real thing we should be concerned about is why Voldemort was able to penetrate your mind."

"… well, I was feeling quite… dark." He looked down at his hands, anywhere but the eyes of Malfoy, the eyes he could feel searching him in surprise. The little tingle at the base of his skull told him so. The watched tingle.

"Was it as intense as the time when you collapsed in front of Malfoy?"

Harry was a bit taken a back, wondering if the old man really had to say it that way, like he was some kind of overly emotional waif. But really Dumbledore wouldn't ever mean anything like that, so he thanked the man for his honest manner of speaking (silently of course) and said, "No, it was just a general feeling. I'm trying to remember, but I don't remember ever feeling a spike or sudden overwhelming emotion. Could their be anything else?"

"The nature of your link with Voldemort is an enigma beyond compare in this world I'm afraid. An unknown piece of magic, with unknown triggers and unknown consequences." He seemed to look a little wizened for a second, before saying, "I am truly sorry, Harry, for that horribly lonely year I subjected you to."

Harry, who had been awkwardly leaning forward with his arms dangling dead in his lap, leaned back and smiled, having already well forgiven the man. "Don't worry about it professor, it was training."

"Training for what my dear boy?"

Harry willed himself not to glance sidelong at Draco, as he told Dumbledore of his loneliness. The blond rolled over in his bed at Harry's words, seemingly a bit miffed about something.

It was odd to think that they had gone from being each other's arch nemesis, to enjoying a budding friendship, perhaps romance even, and now the vibes between them had grown cold. The only change was an overwhelming sadness that now tinged what was sure to be an initiation of stubborn standoffishness in the future.

The space between them had grown vast again, and though Harry had assumed this was going to happen from the start, he somehow didn't feel the need to chastise himself for being so hopelessly foolish. There was a tap at the door, and Ron came gingerly into the room, holding his favorite chess set in his hands. Harry had never wanted to play chess less in his life, but he had never wanted the companionship of his friend more, so he smiled when Ron sat down a little sheepishly by his bed.
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Harry Potter and The Sanguine Brother's Bond